A Poem - Peregrine (I) (2009)
Buffet the crossed wings of the face-barred falcon,
Closed tight over his crown,
Tight against the cruel wind,
The keening world.
Eyes that have seen too far, too fierce, too keen,
Beheld white fire masquerading as inviolate truth
Complete,
Feeding from its own flame,
Reflection
Burned, burned, burned,
Are hooded and blind.
No prophecies are scried, no magic glanced;
They are not filled with the white sharp edge of the sun's light
That comes searing in and binds the lidless eye
And coils the fire-mind.
The falcon's head lifts, its eyes craving roseate dawn,
Not the black-iced pain of night.
A scream is cast into the maelstrom and torn away
Like a tongue that cannot talk of truce.
Would that a fleet curved wing
And the pained yearning of a fierce heart
Would soon carry a pilgrim, steeped
In the sadness and the madness,
Back to the great Axis of Life.
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